Lost and Found
by montez
Summary: Sherlock's away on a job for Mycroft, Lastrade calls John in on a case reminiscent of the most famous murder case in London's history. When John sees a suspicious person hanging around the crime scene he takes a page from Sherlock's playbook and give chase, but could it be his last?
1. Chapter 1

Lost and Found

Disclaimer: Own nothing but the DVD's, Sherlock belongs to BBC and ACD.

 _A/N: Okay another Sherlock attempt. Still a work in progress, but soon to be completed. Wanted to use something involving a bit of the homeless network mentioned in the GC episode. I've also seen a couple works where some refer to Sherlock as 'William' sometimes, no sure where the original idea came from, but I like the name, so I'm borrowing it for the name the homeless network uses when referring to Sherlock. Still on the fence with it being a death-fic, I'll take feedback into consideration since the final chapters are still a work in progress. Anyway, I hope you enjoy-Montez_

Chapter 1

John's feet were pounding along the pavement as he chased the suspect in the latest murder. For one of the few times he was not a pace behind his long-coated partner and flat-mate, no this time he was in the lead and Lastrade was following behind him. John had gotten a text from the Detective Inspector about twenty minutes before the end of his shift at the surgery and met the man outside. There had been two murders in three days with similarities to those of the infamous Jack the Ripper, unfortunately they had been a young prostitute and a young homeless girl.

Upon getting into the car John commented, "Sherlock is going to have a fit he missed this."

Greg glanced at the blond man next to him, "When's he due back?" The vehicle sped through the London traffic toward the latest crime scene.

"Three days, I think Mycroft is taking advantage of having Sherlock indebted to him. From the texts I've been getting nearly hourly this is proving to be the longest seven days in the history of man. It's a good thing Mycroft isn't in the same country as Sherlock or I think he'd be attempting to hunt his brother down out of boredom." John couldn't help the smirk that crossed his lips, the Holmes men had a hell of a way of showing that they care.

"I can't even begin to imagine" Lastrade commented as he pulled up outside the alley the young woman had been found.

Upon exiting the car both men prepared themselves for the scene they were approaching. They knew John was no Sherlock, but his medical and military background proved useful on the rare occasion Holmes intellect was lacking. Watson pinched the bridge of his nose as he took the final steps forward, after being a doctor and working in a warzone you would think John had been able to see man's full capacity of evil against man, but there were even times the doctor was shaken. These two murders were falling into that category, how a person could do such unspeakable things to another person he would never understand.

Several minutes passed as the doctor actually worked in tandem with Anderson and his team trying to find any and all usable evidence. John's own medical mind whirled at the possibility that the person responsible was either trained as or was being trained as a doctor, doctors are trained to heal and ease suffering, not inflict it. Moving down the alley, replaying what he had seen from the previous scene and this one, there was no doubt it was the same person and no doubt the person had medical knowledge. Judging from the age of the victims the perpetrator was more than likely a younger man, no older than thirty. He wouldn't have needed to be charming considering the victims, but he would have needed to be confident in what he was capable of doing. That kind of confidence more than likely came with a bit of arrogance, a thrill that he was recreating the most famous murder case in the world, in the very same city, and he was appearing to leave the police with the same feeling of helplessness as the original killer over a century ago.

John continued to think as he watched the scene, he knew arrogant brilliance, his friend and flat-mate radiated it with his ability to see what other's didn't. Yet where Sherlock used his 'powers' for good, this man, though not likely to be as brilliant as the world's only Consulting Detective, had the arrogance needed. Again this was something John Watson had learned to recognize in people, arrogance, not many people could pull it off and the former Army Doctor had practice in dealing with the Holmes men to spot it the way Sherlock could spot a cheating spouse by their shoes.

That's what drew his attention to the crowd of people at the far end of the alley, he watched as the onlookers milled about behind the patrol officers assigned to keep them away. The young man was stylishly dressed, but not so much so that he stood out from the others around him. Yet it was the posture he held as he seemed to casually lean against the side of the alley, not the nervous stretching to see better that some of the others were presenting, this young man was more into watching the officers investigating, noting when Anderson called to one of his techs when something seemed significant or when Lastrade, who it was clear that he was in charge, moved to talk with the evidence technicians. The young man didn't really seem to pay John that much attention until he moved a little closer to the gathering of people. Watson tried to appear to be watching what was happening around the victim while keeping an eye on the young man, it was only when Lastrade approached John did the man straighten his stance, John and the man's eyes locked for an instant before Greg spoke.

"So what do you think?" Lastrade was good at his job, but hated that he had to deal with murders, he couldn't understand why people felt the need to take another's life or to do it in such unspeakable ways.

John shifted slightly, watching the young man, while also looking at Greg, "I think I see someone we might want to speak to." Watson's voice and manners seemed casual, but Lastrade picked up on the blond man's change in stance, it was like being around Sherlock just before he took off after someone.

Lastrade had been around the Consulting Detective and his Blogger enough to not react to the words or change in position so as not to tip a potential witness or suspect. John spoke again, "Remember the accounts of the Ripper taunting the police, I think that's what this guy is wanting to do, so he hangs around, watches to see what you all might miss." The barely there nod toward the end of the alley was the only indication that John's full attention had shifted there, "Young man, about twenty-five to thirty, five-ten, light brown hair, glasses. He's wearing a grey suit jacket over jeans, light grey button-up, black backpack-type bag over his left shoulder. Probably a weapon in the back of the jean if the way his hand just shifted is any indication."

Greg ran his hand over his face, "Damn you've been around Sherlock way to long, suppose this is going to turn into a chase now?" the older man asked as he stepped toward the mouth of the alley, motioning for one of the patrol officers, trying desperately to scan the crowd without actually looking. He spotted the man just as a smirk crossed his face and John bolted for the entrance, "Shit…" The DI shouted as he took off around the corner he'd already lost John and the suspect around, yelling for the patrol officers to follow.

That's how John Watson found himself closing in on a possible modern day Jack the Ripper as the lead in the chase. 'Sherlock was really gonna be pissed about missing this' John's mind screamed as he focused on the footfalls and possible directions the suspect might take. All the time with Sherlock running through the cities backstreets, alleyways, and sometimes rooftops allowed John to find a cut through and land himself on a small footpath leading to one of the pedestrian bridges over the Thames. It was here that the suspect decided he was going to fight, especially with the strong possibility that John might actually catch him. It wasn't unexpected so John missed the man's first attempt at swing and tackled him to the ground. That seemed to fuel a fight like John hadn't fought since his Army days and the one occasion his hand-to-hand training had come in very well. John rolled off the man, getting to his feet ready for the next attach, and the younger man didn't disappoint as a handful of gravel was thrown at Watson's face. He closed his eyes a fraction of second too late as he felt the grit start to scrap at his eyeballs, a hand instinctively going to his face, the suspect took far advantage, slamming John into the railing of the bridge. Even with his eye's closed John put up a hell of a fight, his hand's finding the younger man's face, his thumbs going for the sensitive eye sockets of his assailant. A punch to the gut loosened John's hands as both men continued to hit wildly at one another. It was just as John barely registered Lastrade's distant shouts that the suspected killer got in a lucky hit that dazed Watson, causing him to stumble, his lower back catching the railing again as the man rushed him.

Time froze for both John and Greg. John felt the moment both his and the suspects feet left the tarmac of the bridge, their bodies in a tangle of flailing limbs as momentum sent them over the protective railing toward the rushing, debris-filled current below. In those few endless stretching seconds John's hand grabbed onto a support rail, while the suspect's hands pulled on John's injured body, causing him to slip further before said suspect lost his grip and a splash was heard over the roar of the river. John's eyes were still squeezed closed, the fragments of gravel and dirt scratching more as each attempt to open his eyes were aborted. His hand slipped a bit more as he heard Greg's shouts getting closer, could feel the vibration of the DI's feet as he pounded with all his might to reach him. However the few lucky hits the suspect had landed were beginning to scream in protest as his body hung precariously by his right arm, his left having taking a hard slam into the railing before the flip so even the slight vibrations from his would-be rescuers were proving too much. In that last second John Watson was able to crack his eyes open, the blurred image of Greg's panicked face and desperate grab for his hand was the last image that registered before his hand gave way and his body was pierced with a thousand needles as the Thames cold water surrounded him and pulled him under.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lastrade rounded the last bend, his eye's finding his friend in a fight with the suspect they were chasing on the pedestrian bridge. His mind screaming that he really needed to get into better shape if he was going to constantly be chasing after Sherlock and John throughout the city, he pushed himself when it seemed the fight was turning against John's best efforts. The patrol officers were close behind, but Greg's gut twisted when he saw John get slammed against the railing. It was in that one horrifying moment that he saw the suspect take a run at the obviously injured Watson that his mind and voice screamed John's name at the same time the two bodies flipped over the railing toward the raging river. Lastrade was able to see the second John's hand caught part of the support railing, the suspect desperately trying to cling to Watson's body before the younger man slipped, splashing into the river below. Greg heard one of the patrol officers calling in water rescue as his own feet hit the bridge, John was just barely hanging on and the Detective Inspector knew he needed to reach his friend fast, he didn't know the extent of the man's injuries or how long he might be able to hold on. The moment he leaned over the railing would haunt him until his dying day, it was in that moment time stood still and the ground beneath him felt like it gave way. For it was in that moment he saw John's injured eye's open, meeting his own frantic ones. It was in that moment that he reached over the railing begging to all that was holy that he could grab a hand, a wrist, a sleeve…and it was in that moment that Greg Lastrade watched his friend, John Watson, slip from the railing, disappearing in the dark, raging waters of the Thames.


	2. Chapter 2

Lost and Found

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

Chapter 2

When Sally Donovan arrived on the scene near the pedestrian bridge there were spotlights and torches bobbing up and down the banks of the rain swollen river. She had seen Lestrade take off after Watson, realizing all the doctor's time spent with the 'Freak' was wearing off on his ability to spot a suspicious person in a crowd. Her job had become to secure the scene and make sure Anderson's team completed their work and the body was sent to the morgue. Over her radio she could hear one of the patrol officers relay of the chase since several of the younger officers had taken off with Lestrade. It had only been about fifteen minutes and the evidence team was starting to pack-up when a relay came over the hand-held device that gave her a moments pause…water rescue was being requested. Even though Sally had issues with Holmes, she found herself liking Dr. Watson, if only for the fact he had an ability to do something she sorely lacked, the ability to tolerate and somewhat control Sherlock Holmes. There was no doubt that since John had appeared in the younger man's life, though still not pleasant to be around, the 'Consulting Detective' was slightly more tolerable on crime scenes. Donovan silently prayed that the water rescue call was because the potential suspect they were chasing had ended in the water and not the doctor.

Those fears were confirmed less than a minute later when Lestrade's frantic voice screamed from the radio, begging for any other officer in the area to converge on his location as both the suspect and Dr. John Watson had gone into the river. The last of the investigating officers were leaving the murder scene, Anderson was loading the body into the transport van as Sally ran toward her own vehicle to reach her commanding officer and hoping the doctor was okay.

Ten minutes later found Donovan approaching a frantically pacing Detective Inspector as the man continued to yell at the officers along the bank and over the radio, giving descriptions of both men who had disappeared into the darkened waters.

"SIR!" Sally called out over the noise of the river. The look on the older man's face nearly took her breath, the look was wrong, it was frantic, it was worried, but the look she saw that twisted the knot that had been forming in her gut to the point of nauseating was scared. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade was scared and she had never known him to be scared.

The older man rubbed his hand over his face and through his hair, a moment's relief at Donovan's presence was felt before the crushing fear that his friend hadn't been found yet retook his feelings. If John Watson was able to anticipate some of Sherlock Holmes's moves and thought processes, Sally Donovan could do the same with Gregory Lestrade, that was why she was his second in command and he wasn't ashamed to admit he needed her on this as Greg's sole focus was no longer on the murder investigation, but on finding his friend. "He was hurt…" Lestrade said, his eye's watching the search down river, "God Sally, he was hurt and I couldn't…" The older man's voice cracked slightly as Donovan could piece together what might have happened. "I was so close…I almost had him…" Greg mumbled out just above the noise of the river, if the younger woman hadn't been so close to the man she would have missed it.

"They'll find him, he's tough…he puts up with Holmes so he has to be and he was Army right…so he knows how to fight, how to survive…we'll find him." Sally knew her words were hollow at the moment. She knew how quickly the current of the river could render the best swimmers to nothing but bathtub toys being pushed along with the current, bobbing helpless among the debris-filled waters.

The night was cold, the water even colder and time was stretching on, time John Watson didn't have. Lestrade left Sally near the bridge as he took off on foot down river, joining the dozens of officers checking the banks. He'd stop occasionally, shining his torch over the swift moving water, noting the search and rescue boats that dotted the river. He'd glanced at his watch just before the call over the radio came in and he found himself running along the bank. A body had been found about a half-mile from where he was, spotlights could be seen filling the area, "LET ME THROUGH!" his voice bellowed and several patrol officers moved as the DI came through, stopping as another officer was kneeling next to the facedown body. Greg's mind flashed for a second to John's friendly face as he approached, but then he noticed that the body didn't fit how John was built. Watson wasn't stocky, but was more compact in his build, the body before them was built more along Sherlock's build, Lestrade shook that thought from his head, Sherlock was out of the country, he was safe. But the body before them was leaner, longer limbed and even before they turned it over Greg knew it wasn't his friend, it was the suspect his friend had taken off after, the one Lestrade had seen desperately trying to cling to Watson's body as they flipped over the railing, the first one to be lost into the raging waters.

Even though he knew it wasn't John before the body was turned, once the lax, battered face could be seen Lestrade whispered 'thank God' because there was still a chance that John might be found. But then a cloud of fear and doubt slipped over that moment of reprieve at the possibility of John being found alive was quickly diminishing. Donovan's voice called for her boss further up the embankment, worry clearly written across her dark features, "It's the suspect, it's not John," He yelled up to her and saw the same fleeting relief quickly overcome with fear that he had just felt.

Greg made his way toward the woman as the call to continue the search went out, "It's been almost an hour, what if…" Sally was stopped by her superiors pained look.

"Please Sally, I can't…I won't give up on him, not until…" 'We find a body' didn't need to be said as the older man rubbed his face again, resuming his trek down river to help continue the search.

Donovan became the on-site commander as Greg's sole focus was John, she relayed info between incoming officers, directing them to locations downstream in the dwindling hope that John Watson would be miraculously found alive. The sun's first rays were starting to streak across the London skyline when Sally made the call her boss refused. They were ending the search, the chances of the former Army doctor and blogger to a self-described sociopath being found alive were nearly none existent and she had to be the one to make that call, no matter how it would affect Greg. Now they had to decide who was going to have the task of informing said sociopath, something Donovan was not looking forward to being a part of.

The younger woman found her boss sitting on a bench a few miles downstream from the bridge John had fallen from, she had never seen the older man look so broken. "Sir?" She sat next to him.

"I…" Lestrade's voice broke as he looked at her, "How did this happen? What did I do wrong? I almost had him, why couldn't I get to him in time?" His weary eyes were still watching the river rushing by him, even as he knew the crews were packing up.

"This wasn't your fault…it just…" Donovan took a deep breath, "It just happened." She really didn't know what else to say, nothing would help the Detective Inspector at this point. "I think we need to consider contacting the Fr…Sherlock, he needs to hear it from us before this leaks to the press"

Lestrade leaned forward his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands, "Sherlock, God how am I going to explain this? John was his friend, his one true friend and I let him die on my watch." The older man turned his head slightly, "How the hell am I supposed to tell him John's gone?"

Over the sound of the water Sally heard a vehicle come up the service road that ran along the bank, glancing over her shoulder her heart sunk at the implications of who was in that vehicle. She'd seen it enough times when Sherlock and John were on crime scenes and she had learned months ago that the man it belonged to was with the government, but more importantly he was Sherlock Holmes's brother. "Sir…" Donovan's voice drew Greg's gaze in the direction she was looking as they both watched Mycroft Holmes step from the black car.

Without a word Greg took a deep breath and stood, it had been a long night, his clothes were mud covered and horribly wrinkled from his fruitless search, but he tried to straighten himself as best he could. The moment of truth was upon him and he was going to have to be the one to inform the elder Holmes of what happened, provided he didn't know already, which Lestrade was sure the man did, but he would have to insist that he be the one to tell Sherlock. So with a set determination he looked at Sally, "Go back to the office, start taking care of what needs to be taken care of, I'll be in," The DI glanced at Mycroft then back to Sally, "I'll be in when I get there." A nod was his only response as Donovan knew it could be hours or even days before she saw Lestrade within the walls of Scotland Yard as she watched the man make his way up the embankment and wordlessly get into the car behind Mycroft Holmes.

The tension inside the car was unbearably thick, Mycroft sat in silence as Greg alternated between looking at his slightly shaking hands and glancing as the city rushed by the tinted windows. "I'm sorry" Lestrade whispered quietly.

"I don't know what you are apologizing for Detective Inspector Lestrade." Mycroft's cultured voice seemed to vibrate the interior of the car.

Taking a deep breath Lestrade stilled his courage and looked up to meet Sherlock's brother's gaze. "I let him take off after a suspect, I wasn't able to keep up with him and when I did reach him I wasn't able to save him. It's my fault John's…" try as he might the older man could not bring himself to say that one four-letter word that would finally shatter that sliver of hope that wanted to stay rooted in the back of his brain, but hopes and wishes could not bring someone back from the one enemy that stalked and caught everyone eventually; death.

"If there is one thing I have learned from John Watson it is that he would not blame others for his own actions and I am certain he clearly understood the dangers of what he did with regards to both yours and my brother's work." Mycroft glanced at the text his ever-present PA showed him, nodding slightly before turning his attention back to the officer in the car with him. "I take it the offender he was pursuing was the body found overnight?"

Nodding Greg looked out the window again, "We don't have identification as of yet, or at least I'm not aware. I'm sure he's been ID'd but I've had other…" Again his thoughts drifted back to the look on John's face as his hold on the railing gave way and the grip of the river pulled him under.

In that moment everything from the evening slammed into him, his mind went blank as an overwhelming feeling of despair took over, his body finally seeming to respond to the stress and shock of the events, "PULL OVER" he commanded as he fumbled with the door latch before the vehicle even stopped. His feet hitting pavement that tilted with his steps, his hands reaching out for support against the nearest building. His mind barely registering the bins just down the alleyway he stumbled to, his body expelling the meager remains of the cup of coffee and sandwich he'd eaten the evening before, just before he'd texted John about the latest body.

His body continued to dry-heave as his knees hit the pavement, he never heard the person approaching before he felt a hand on his back, a body knelling next to him. "I think we need to get you somewhere you can rest, our discussion can be delayed until then. Can you stand?" Mycroft's unusually concerned voice filtered passed the roaring overtaking Lestrade's hearing, never feeling as the elder Holmes and the vehicle's driver got him back to the car. Once inside Greg accepted an offered water from Anthea, leaning back in the seat, his eye's closing against his will. The hellish night and early morning fading into an oppressive feeling of empty darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

Lost and Found

Disclaimer: See chapter one

Chapter 3

A mumbled moan escaped the unconscious man that now lay under nearly every spare blanket and piece of cloth the group of about twenty homeless people possessed. It had been nearly eight hours since one of the younger members of their little encampment came running in, scared out of his mind that he'd found a body under the bridge the cops had swarmed hours before. He was afraid to call the cops himself, he didn't want to be busted for killing the guy, so he drug a couple of the older members of the camp back with him to see and figure out how to report the body without it getting back to them.

"Man I hates bodies found in the river, taint natural that a body become messed up likes that." A larger, dark-skinned man walked along the path the younger was following.

"Poor bloke, this weather he wouldn't have lasted long, small mercy suppose." A gray haired man added as the kid pointed under the bridge, near one of the supports that met the bank.

"Best to double checks…never knows." Big George added as he neared the body that was laying on its side. There was very little light and they didn't bring any torches for fear someone would see them messing about and the whole camp would get called in by the cops. It had been a couple hours since the police that had swarmed the area had moved further downstream and they didn't know if this body was the one they were looking for or not, but the sooner this was sorted the better.

Kneeling down Big George reached a hand up and rolled the body onto it's back and jumped when a faint moan escaped the lifeless man, "Gesh, he's alive!" he turned toward the gray-haired man and the kid, "Benny, Michael he's alive we need to get him to camp and try and gets help for him." So as easy as they could, not knowing what type of injuries the man had, the three homeless men lifted the unconscious one and made their way back to camp.

They placed him near the fire, covering him as best they could. The man wasn't shivering despite him being wet and the frigid temperatures and that concerned them more than any injury he might have. They all knew people who'd frozen on the streets and they hoped getting him near the fire and covered quickly might give him the fighting chance he needed. Continuing their assessment they could tell just by looking he'd probably been in a fight and the gash on his head might have happened when he went in the water. The only reason they could guess as to why he wasn't washed downstream was it looked like his leg had gotten snagged on some debris in the water at the base of the support and the current managed to twist him toward the bank, his right foot was missing both his shoe and sock and the bottom of his pants leg was ripped leaving his leg messed up with a deep gash and an obvious broken ankle.

"Now what?" Benny asked as a couple of the woman in the camp went about getting the man's coat off and trying to treat the wounds they could while trying to warm him. "If you go to the cops they's gonna run us off from here, and we can't just let him die neither."

Big George looked up at Momma Nanc, the elder of their small encampment as she checked the injured man for any type of ID, unfortunately not finding any. "We'll give him some time, see if he wakes up and go from there." She said moving the blankets closer around the injured man's body, finally rocking back on her heels, "We're gonna need a few supplies for if he does wake up, you boy's try and round up some water and a few clean scraps of cloth, to start covering some of these wounds. Benny I need you to send some of the younger folk toward Baker Street, there's been a Doctor that's been seen tending to some of the homeless in that area, mostly those part of William's network. If we can get a message to him, maybe he can come and help, at least tell us how to get help without the fear of the police." Benny moved off to find a couple reliable runners, telling them to check with the population over that way and find out how to contact this doctor, he just hoped the doc could get there in time to help the injured man.

SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW

"JOHN!"

Lestrade sat straight up from the couch he was laying on, the smell around him was faintly familiar but he knew it wasn't his place. Turning to sit up the memories of what had happened crashed over him again as he ran his hand over his weary face. Finally looking up he was startled to find himself on the couch of 221b Baker Street with Mycroft Holmes sitting in the chair normally occupied by Sherlock, "How long was I out?"

"About two hours. I've had Anthea monitoring the police dispatches, unfortunately there is still no word on John." Mycroft's voice still held that air of authority, but also of a man worried. Greg found it odd that the elder Holmes would sound worried, especially about John, but as he had learned since John Watson had come into Sherlock's life, 'odd' took on new meaning.

Thinking of Sherlock Lestrade moved to stand, looking out upon Baker Street, "Does Sherlock know yet?"

"I haven't told my brother anything other than he was urgently needed back in London and I sent a private jet to retrieve him. He should be landing anytime now." Mycroft watched the seemingly broken man before him. Though Sherlock didn't think he had many people in his life he could actually call friends, Mycroft knew that John was of course an exceptional man to deal with his little brother day in and day out without going mad. But he also knew Greg Lestrade cared for his brother in a way only a friend could, whether Sherlock realized it or not. It was clear the loss of John was weighing heavily on the Detective Inspector, but the weight of the fact the DI wanted to tell Sherlock himself was much heavier.

"Oh God…" Greg turned and looked at Mycroft, "Mrs. Hudson…she needs…"

"I've managed to have Anthea take Mrs. Hudson on an 'errand', if you will, so you can inform Sherlock of what happened and then we can proceed with telling the dear woman. She does care about her two lodgers in the most motherly way and I felt it better that Sherlock be here when she is informed." The Government Man stated, moving toward the kitchen as if it was his own, going about starting the pot for tea, obviously needing to do something himself until his brother arrived.

"That's good, Sherlock needs to be here when she finds out." Greg couldn't help a small smile crossing his face, "To not be their housekeeper, she sure manages to take care of those two…" His voice dropped as what he said registered, "Took care, God I…DAMN IT!" Lestrade yelled, slamming his fist into the wall near the kitchen door, quickly recoiling from the pain.

Mycroft gave the man a sideways look, "Did that help?" he asked flatly.

"Bloody Hell no it didn't help!" The DI growled out, testing the aching appendage to make sure it didn't seem broken. Fortunately he didn't feel any bones grating, but made a mental note to have it looked at later, John would kill him…God his mind had wondered again as he sat heavily in John's chair, the thought of the lecture John would have given him for that one moment of frustration caused a sob to escape before Greg could catch it. Silence again filled the flat as the kettle slowly warmed and they awaited the arrival of the living spaces soon to be lone occupant.

SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW

Sherlock was not pleased to have Mycroft pull him back to London in the middle of a case, even an unbearably boring case such as the ones his brother manages to rope him into. The whole hour flight back he'd texted his brother, John, and Lestrade to try and figure out what was so important that he needed to return immediately and he had been frustrated and fuming that no one had returned any of his messages. "Got their tiny minds so wrapped up in a puzzle they can't solve, really how do they function on a daily basis" Sherlock mumbled as he disembarked the plane and made his way to the waiting black car, surprised neither his brother nor his ever present PA was inside, just a driver.

It was mid-day as they made their way through the city presumably toward Mycroft's office, but when the driver turned left instead of right the destination became clear, "I thought I was meeting my brother, why are you taking me home?" Sherlock didn't normally converse with Mycroft's minions, but he was not in a mood to be toyed with, especially not by his brother.

"I was informed Mr. Holmes was meeting you at Baker Street." The clipped reply came without the man even looking up into the rearview mirror.

"Always a power play with you brother isn't it?" the younger man mumbled again as they drew closer Sherlock's and John's flat.

Sherlock expected to see Mycroft's private car outside, but found the street empty except for a few taxi's and the vehicles that belonged to a couple tenants of the flats across the street. Upon exiting the car the younger man started for the door when a young girl approached, "Mr. William…" She paused as he looked toward her waving off the driver who was about to intercept her.

"Cathy…" He stepped toward her, she was one of the young women in the network of people on the street he used if he needed info or someplace watched without notice, "What can I do for you?" It was rare for the members of his network to contact him, unless something was wrong. They had been invaluable over the last few years in giving him a heads up when someone was hanging around and paying too much attention to Baker Street. However, over the last couple of years they would also come requesting John's help if someone was hurt or sick, especially since John had started frequenting the camps on a regular basis to offer medical assistance.

"Is Doctor John in? I got somebody needen his help, but they ain't from around here. Not part of our network and they was afraid to ask." Cathy stepped a little closer, but far enough away to not infringe on personal space, especially since everyone knew Mr. William didn't like to be touched by others.

"I just got back in town Cathy, I'm sure he's inside or at the surgery. Where is his assistance needed and I'll let him know, I'm sure he'll come as soon as he can." Sherlock secretly admired John's dedication to the homeless around Baker Street, and knew he wouldn't refuse anyone help.

"I wrote it down the best I could, it's over near Putney Bridge, there's a camp over that way that's got a man who's in a really bad way and their afraid to call the police for help, you know they don't like messing with us much and they didn't want any trouble and heard about the doc helping up this way." Cathy handed Sherlock the crumbled bit of paper before stepping back.

Holmes tried to give her a reassuring smile, "Thank you Cathy and please let them know John will be there as soon as he is able." With that the young woman took off across the street and down an alleyway. Glancing at the street name on the paper Sherlock stuffed it in his pocket, pulling out his phone to text John before opening the door to Baker Street.


	4. Chapter 4

Lost and Found

Disclaimer: See chapter one

Chapter 4

Slipping his phone back into his pocket as the door shut behind him Sherlock could hear slight movement up in the flat. Still irritated with his brother and a bit put off by both John's and Lestrade's lack of response to his texts the younger man bound up the stairs, "Mycroft, what could possibly be so important…" the atmosphere of the flat stopped Sherlock in mid-sentence, not an easy feat to do. Stepping through the door it was Lestrade he saw first, the older Detective standing from his spot in John's chair 'why is he in John's chair?' flashed in Holmes's mind before he turned, his brother stepping through the kitchen door. All three men were quiet for a heartbeat before Sherlock spoke, "What's wrong? What's happened?" Sherlock spun in his spot, researching the flat like he'd missed something, "Where is John?"

The Consulting Detective saw Greg pale even further than he already was, Mycroft shifted stiffly as the sound of the kettle echoed far louder than normal.

"Fine, I don't know what this game is, but I'll just call John and see if he knows what's gotten you two acting as if the ground just fell out from under your feet." Reaching in his pocket to pull his phone back out he found it being pulled, surprisingly effortlessly, from his hands by the slightly shaking hands of Greg Lestrade.

"He won't answer Sherlock." Lestrade's voice was strained, he watched as Sherlock slowly raised his eye's to meet those of the man before him.

"And why not?" Sherlock's voice was controlled, too controlled as he felt his gut twist in only a way concern for his flat-mate/friend could cause.

Both Mycroft and Lestrade were probably the only two people, besides John Watson, that could hear the fear behind the controlled voice, could feel the worry that had been emanating off the younger man the moment he'd found Lestrade and Mycroft, without John, in the flat. Mycroft had no idea exactly how the news about John would affect his brother, but he knew deep-down it would not be good. He'd worried about 'Danger Nights' in the past and he knew this news would/could produce a crisis for his brother that the elder Holmes may not be able to stop.

"Sherlock, maybe you should sit down." Lestrade was trying desperately to slip into officer mode, it was a line he had used on countless occasions when having to deliver bad news to families. Some people accepted the request and sat, other's refused to believe that any bad news could happen with regards to their family or friends and on many an occasion Greg had caught a collapsing family member after said news was delivered.

"Oh for God's sack…I'm not one of those annoying idiots who fumbles their way through their dull existence terrified a visit from the police will devastate my life." Sherlock gave Lestrade a glare, "What hospital and how badly is he hurt? Was it some out of control patient at that place he insist on working? How long will he be laid up before I can bring him back to crime scenes? God knows Anderson is useless to me." Stalling, Sherlock had never intentionally tried to stall someone in his life unless it had to do with a case, but something in the back of his brilliant mind screamed at him that whatever Lestrade was wanting, needing to say, was something he did not want to hear.

"Brother…" Mycroft tried to interject before Sherlock rounded on him.

"No 'Brother', this is ridiculous, just tell me where he is so I can collect him. He hates hospitals as much as I do and he'll…" Sherlock was interrupted by Greg's shaking voice.

"Damn it Sherlock, John's dead…" The older man inhaled a strangled breath as the word he had been avoiding since the night before escaped from his mouth.

It took Sherlock a few seconds to respond, "I'm sorry, what?" It pulled at Greg's heart to hear that broken sound come from the young man before him. He watched as Mycroft came and stood just behind his younger sibling, giving the DI a slight nod.

Taking a deep breath Lestrade steeled himself, "He was on a case with me last night, Ripper-style killing, second one in three days…he was watching the crowd after looking at the body, spotted a guy that just didn't look right…Damn he almost sounded like you last night. The guy noticed John watching and took off and John went after him. I followed him, but all that running you two do, I couldn't keep up…" Greg rubbed his face moving toward the windows again, needing to put some space between himself and Sherlock, the man's expression was so closed off it was unnerving. The DI turned back around, "They made it to one of the pedestrian bridges and the guy turned on him, I don't know how it happened but by the time I reached the path leading to the bridge I could see John had been hurt somehow, the guy ran at him and they both…they both went over the railing. The suspect slipped in first, John had managed to grab some of the exposed railing, but just as I got to him…" Lestrade moved back toward Sherlock, "God Sherlock I tried, God help me I tried to get to him, but just as I reached over he slipped."

An oppressive silence filled the flat as Lestrade's pleading expression stayed fixed on Sherlock's nearly blank one. Mycroft moved a step closer toward his younger sibling, everyone seeming to be waiting for the other shoe to drop. The elder Holmes placed his hand on his brother's shoulder, "Sherlock?"

The violent jerk was not completely unexpected, "Get your hand off me!" the venom in those five words caused Greg to step back, not knowing what may be aimed his way. "You let him chase a suspect?" Sherlock rounded on Lestrade, his finger coming up, pointing accusingly. "You let him go after someone without back up, without someone to have his back when your 'suspect' turned on him?" A threatening step forward caused Lestrade to step back again. The older man wasn't sure what to expect from Sherlock, he expected anger, and God knew guilt had been weighing on the officer since John had slipped away, so if the younger man struck out at him, he probably wouldn't attempt to defend himself.

Mycroft tried to intervene, "Sherlock, isn't that what John has always done with you on an alarmingly frequent basis?"

"I know what I'm doing, I watch his back and he watches mine, I do not let him go off on his own!" Sherlock's voice was nearly shaking the windows.

"And John knew what he was doing, you've taught him very well Little Brother." It took a moment for Mycroft's choice of words and tone to slam into Sherlock's soul. Was this Sherlock's fault? Had he allowed John to become so accustomed to chasing the miscreant's of society that the former Army Doctor wouldn't give it a second thought, even if Sherlock was not there to watch his back?

Both men watched Sherlock's face pale, all the previous moment's anger slipping away as realization of what was happening seemed to overcome the young man's features. Rubbing his hands over his face, a sharp breath escaped the genius, then a strangled inhale that seemed to draw in far too little oxygen, "Oh God, John…" Sherlock turned in a circle a moment, his body trying to compensate for the whirl his mind had been thrown into, his flat-mate, his blogger, his friend, his only true friend, was gone, Dr. John Watson was dead. Sherlock sank to the couch, his hands going to his face, pulling at his hair as the most haunting sound Lestrade had ever heard escaped the younger man's lips, a desperate plea echoed in a single, whispered word…

"John"


End file.
